Louis's heart was
longing to walk in the Gallery Des Mirrors back in Versailles. Mirrors and his
own reflections had always obsessed him, he was infatuated by the narcissi fanthom
that he saw in his private galleries Des Miroirs. He talked to his reflections,
he danced with them, he cried at them. Chambord was but a past time, where he
met other dignitaries, and rode the newest horses.
It
was pleasant but Versailles was indeed his favorite. The only curtsey he truly
loved was the one he gave himself in front of his own silent mirror.
The Sultan had arrived.; dressed in silk pantalons and vest, embroidered with
jewels, at 40 he was looking very handsome. In many ways he outshined the King
of France. And Louis took an instant dislike to the man. Louis ' Court was embarrassed
by this unexpected rivalry, yet the Sultan through his gentle manners brought
them close to him, as he started to dance the Menuet with une delicieuse de Ramblais.
The couple was exquisite in their refined steps.
Louis attention was already elsewhere: The Sultan in his heart felt a great Love
for Louis de France. He was so healthy so carefree, so elegant. They had but a
few hours before dawn, and the duel. The matter had already been resolved; they
would use the mousquetier, a firearm. It would be fast and one of them would have
to leave the earth. Louis' hatred of the Sultan increased as the Court of France
grew fonder of the gentle stranger. His tragic fate added to his mystic aura.
Louis
' glare was focused on a new vessel. A gold timbal encrusted with flawless diamonds
which captured Louis image and reflected it manyfoled in challenging arrows to
the crystals of the Court of France, it outshined every other vessel. Louis was
mesmerized. This did not go unnoticed by the Sultan. The vessel was a personal
gift from him to Louis. Was the King of France aware of this? The Sultan did not
want to answer this question.
Time was going fast. The court was already withdrawing, hours had evaporated like
mere seconds, and everyone way for the exit of the King of France. There was a
cold shift felt throughout the dance room, as the queen and her lady of waiting
left for another wing of the Chateau. Louis had not even cared to bow to the First
Lady of France, as he had been consumated by hatred for the Stranger. He felt
arrogantly edgy.
Louis's
mind was no more in Ramblais; it was back in Versailles, in his fairy gallery,
back to the mirrors and the delicious hours he spent enamoured by his reflections.
In the Sultan's quarters, everyone felt gloomy. The Sultan was known to be excellent
in targeting preys. He was very swift. They had no doubt that the Sultan would
outpower the young king of France.
The Sultan was strangely quiet and relaxed, now inspite of the dark mood around
him. He had just spent the most marvelous night of his life, the Menuet Night.
He had no care or no fear now, he knew. He had understood the meaning of the Menuet
Steps. An exact trail in the human destiny.
He
was ready for the duel. Louis was easily captured by a dazzle. He was no match
to him, he knew that already. It would be very easy to distract him and strike
him to death. In the morning, 6am, when the dew was still on the grass leaves,
two carriages arrived. The King of France's and the Sultan's.
Witnesses were standing by, neither the Sultan nor Louis were agitated. A single
shot was heard, and a body falling heavy on the ground. Wailing mounted in the
spring morning of France, it was a loud wailing of the orient and not the quiet
moans of the West; the Sultan was dead, a bullet in his heart. His hands empty,
he had not even touched his gun. Hastily his body was taken back to the carriage,
Louis smiled.
An
hour ago an agreement had been passed, unknown to the courts of France or of the
Sultan's. The Sultan went to see Louis and told him how he wished to die in the
Menuet's night. He felt it was his destiny to depart from life in the Menuet steps.
He wanted to be buried in the Menuet Night. And so Louis felt the anguish of this
special man, he felt the charisma of the sultan's soul and he acquiesced. As the
carriage of the Sultan left the land of France in mourning, in the coffin the
corpse of another had been laid.
Louis's
carriage was gallopping back to Versailles. Louis was seated besides the limp
corpse of the Sultan. Within the next few hours, a magical grave would be build
behind the mirror gallery of Versailles. The Herald was shouting a new decree
of the Court, Menuet nights would be held in La Gallerie Des Miroirs at Versailles.
Mozart left France forever, while Bach stayed on. One heart broken, one heart
mended in the Menuet nights of France.
The
prophecy of the old astronomer proved true, as Louis spent most of his night in
Versailles' galleries des Miroirs, thus honoring the Sultan with his presence,
more often than any other soul had been by a King of France. And the Sultan's
soul watched over the reflections of the King of France, so that no ill-omens
or bad spells would taint the image of Louis, albeit through the mirrors of death.
The Menuet Night lasted by a 1000 life-times. Copyrighted Rahman,Brigitte Arlette-2001.
-3/3-The
Parisian Night in sobs Copyrighted Rahman, brigitte Arlette- All rights reserved.
.
